


The Things We Do in the Dark

by A_Fine_Piece



Series: A Thin Red Line [44]
Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Intimacy, Prostitution, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:48:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24230863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Fine_Piece/pseuds/A_Fine_Piece
Summary: [Set before the beginning of the series] Hisana is nervous that Byakuya will cut his ties with her pending his nuptials.  Byakuya has a confession to make.
Relationships: Kuchiki Byakuya/Kuchiki Hisana
Series: A Thin Red Line [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/93946
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	The Things We Do in the Dark

The Pleasure Quarter is awash in the soft ocher glow of twilight. The streets are relatively quiet for the time of day. Thin crowds scatter from stall to stall, purchasing street food and peering into stores selling an assortment of fashion and art. 

Hisana relishes these strangely dead moments that only exist during the off-times between the district’s various festivals. 

She keeps to the side streets, secret passages only known to the permanent residents of the district, to avoid the foot traffic near the kabuki theater district. When she has to cross into one of the main arteries that connect the teahouses to the theater, she glimpses the scrolls hanging in some of the merchant stalls. 

The lines of fluttering artwork contain idealized depictions of life in the floating world: kabuki performers mid-performance, courtesans reading letters from their lovers, and, of course, portraits of the women and men who have captured the intrigue of the nobles at the time. 

It is here where she glimpses a picture of herself, and her blood chills.

It isn’t the first time she’s seen her likeness being sold in stores. But, it never stops feeling surreal at best and predatory at worst, depending on how she is being depicted. In this instance, the portrait is part of a collection celebrating fashion. So, at least she’s clothed.

She frowns all the same, unable to escape the feeling that her identity isn’t hers alone. It is a product, a commodity. And, perhaps, it belongs more to the men and women who invest in her than it does to her. 

Hesitantly, she makes eye contact with the vendor, who instantly recognizes her. His face brightens and he fumbles to the front of his stall.

She cocks a brow and grins slyly at him, as if to ask him to keep her presence a secret. 

He immediately presses his lips shut and gives her a small wink.

When she reaches the bridge, she heaves a sigh of relief. The perfect rows of well-maintained wooden planks soothe her. At the other end of the bridge lays the large red gates to the Pleasure Quarters beyond which is the Third District’s main marketplace, which further leads to the Second District. 

Since her service began as a courtesan, Hisana is not permitted to roam freely outside the Pleasure Quarters. Such freedom is a distant memory. She is tethered to the floating world by law and her contract, only able to leave under limited circumstances to perform officially-sanctioned duties.

Moving to the side, she rests her hands against the large wooden banister, and she glances over the edge of the bridge to see the small diverted stream that runs underneath. The gold and black scales of the carp swimming in the stream glisten in the dim sunlight dappling the water through the thick canopy of tree branches. 

She could watch the babbling water for hours. 

Hours, however, are in limited supply for her. A fact that becomes instantly salient as soon as she feels the glossy touch of a tightly wrapped fabric against her hand. Her eyes dart down to find a small parcel folded in red silk.

She glances up to find the young Kuchiki lord watching the water rushing under the bridge. 

“A gift,” he says softly without breaking his gaze.

“Lord Kuchiki,” she begins, but he cuts her off with a look. 

He had taken her offering earlier that day without protest. It is only fair that she reciprocates his gesture.

Carefully, she peels the oily silk back to find a red kanzashi. She holds it up to the fading light to admire the painting and beadwork of the hairpin. “It is lovely,” she says almost reflexively. 

She then turns her attention to her companion. He is handsome, a fact that strikes her at strange intervals, as if he could be no other way. But, in the soft halo of twilight, dressed in a mint green kimono, his beauty holds her gaze and stays her tongue longer than is proper. 

“I can’t,” she begins, finally finding her will to speak, but he stops her.

“It was my mother’s,” he says smoothly, brooking no argument from her, “and I thought it suited you.”

She smiles drily at this. “Why does milord think it suits me?”

His gaze slides to her, and he smirks slightly, as if remembering his impudent questioning of her intentions just hours ago regarding a similar gift she gave him. “It is beautiful,” he says simply.

Keeping his gaze proves perilous. Her confidence immediately wavers until she lowers her head in submission. She hides her embarrassment well with a gentle request: “If milord would oblige me?” she offers him the kanzashi and turns her head.

He shifts closer to her, and, with a tenderness that she has never known from a man, he fits the pin securely in the part of her hair that has been pulled into an ornate chignon. 

Feeling the prickle of the pin against her scalp, Hisana straightens her back and glances up at him. He watches her with such a stillness that she wonders if he is displeased.

“Lovely,” he says, softly.

She smiles, and, for the first time in a long while, she blushes. The sting is sudden and unbidden. “Milord is too kind.” 

He braces at her declaration. His lips part and his jaw clenches. 

He studies her with a quiet look. It is an expression that he dons at times, like a favorite scarf. And it is one that she never knows how to interpret. Even after all these years. 

“Will you accompany me on a walk?” he asks the question so suddenly—his delivery quick and sharp—that the words seem to surprise him as much as they do her. 

For a moment he looks _boyish_. Just like she remembered him during his first visit with her nearly ten years ago. The scene flashes in her mind, conjured by the deep magic of memory.

She has to press her lips tightly together to keep from grinning like a schoolgirl. 

It is these small moments, she thinks to herself, that spur her heart to flutter with the intensity of a hummingbird’s wings. 

In the beginning, she rebuked herself for being too easy around him, for being taken in so thoroughly by his beauty, his intellect, and the fire that only rarely flares but he keeps all the same. 

Now, she relishes her moments with him, like water to dry lips.

“If milord will have me,” she says, eyes bright, mustering the most charming expression she has in her arsenal. 

He bows his head slightly, and he takes a few steps deeper into the Pleasure Quarter.

Obediently, Hisana keeps a few paces behind him. 

Men and women, even married couples, do not walk together. To do so is considered vulgar. Everyone knows this; everyone abides by this simple rule.

Everyone, except _him_.

Realizing that she is not by his side, he stops short and waits for her. His gray eyes glitter like agate in the burnt oranges of sunset. 

Her cheeks are aflame. “Lord Byakuya Kuchiki,” she hums under her breath, hoping to chasten him.

Yet, he does not move until she is beside him. 

_This isn’t right_ , the voice inside her head warns.

“Would milord prefer me to show him the sights in the district?” she asks, knowing that he doesn’t need a tour. The nobles from Seireitei have been frequenting the pleasure district long before she was sold to the Peony House. 

“I was hoping to escort you somewhere,” he begins, voice softer than the wind bending cattails in the field, “somewhere private.”

Her brows raise. “Oh?” Carefully, she scrutinizes the gleam in his eyes. 

Nothing. 

His gaze is perfectly unreadable, a realization that elicits a sinking feeling that he is going to end his patronage of her. 

Imperceptible, she braces, her legs going stiff. A childish part of her wants to refuse, wants to stop in the middle of the street, arms folded in defiance. 

She does none of these things. 

Instead, she forces onward, taking small, measured steps. Her heart thunders in her chest. Her thoughts whirl wildly like flurries caught in a gust. 

An uneasy silence blankets them. It is cold. Worse, it is full of dread.

Only when they reach an inlet of what appears to be stretch of luxury apartments does she realize that she has been holding her breath the entire time. Her chest aches from the rigid tension, and she sucks in sharp gulp of air that stings her throat on the way down.

“My family keeps a place here,” he says quietly, eyes fixed on a door tucked into a cramped corner. He opens it with little preamble and holds it for her as she crosses the threshold. 

The space is large and inviting. The tatami mats are artfully placed. Several shoji screens divide the apartment into several rooms. Each screen masterfully depicts a Japanese maple tree dressed in full autumn attire. 

In the middle of the floor is a sunken hearth with a few pillows strewn around its circumference. It looks warm. Inviting. _Sensual_.

Hisana’s heart jumps at the last thought. _Sensual_. She can almost feel the crisp chill of fall, smell the mustiness of fallen foliage, hear the _crunch_ of dried leaves, and yet . . . staring into her lover’s eyes, all she can see is winter.

Despite the zen beauty of the apartment’s design and décor, there is an inescapable sense of _emptiness_. The space seems frozen in time, unloved, unlived in, _unwanted_.

“It is a lovely apartment,” she says, hoping the sound of her voice can stave back the heavy silence that has fallen between them.

Byakuya watches her for a long moment. He stands bent over a lamp, his fingers working a match. “My mother and father would come here, when she was alive.” He says the words so neutrally. Too neutrally. They sound practiced. 

Yes, she assumes Byakuya Kuchiki must have eons of practice saying one thing and feeling quite another. It is a commonality they share, at least.

“She had impeccable taste,” Hisana replies, turning to face the front of the room. Her eyes trail to the windows flanking the door. The screens are drawn, leaving her to imagine the lively streets on the other side.

She hears the faint sounds of her lover fumbling with a match and a weathered flint. It takes him three strikes before the room is finally awash in a bright amber hue. The flame flickers wildly, which urges the shadows gathered in the corners of the room to scurry up the walls.

Hisana’s gaze follows the fluttery dance of light and shadow until she has no choice but to turn her attention to her lord. Her heart quakes at the sight of him. 

She closes her eyes, as if to submit to the inevitability of bad news. 

Briefly, she considers the role that she will play tonight. Does she keep her head up and congratulate him on his choice of wife? Does she throw herself down and weep, making a spectacle of herself for his amusement and ego? Or, does she leave in a veil of silence before the tears, true and stinging, threaten to drown her?

Her fingers dig into the bone of her arm, a sharp reminder that she is here, that this is real, and that she has survived worse than a broken heart. 

“Milord looks perturbed,” she says and takes a careful step toward him.

His jaw clenches, and the pit between his clavicles deepen. He is holding his breath. 

Perhaps the truth has stolen the words from his tongue? Or worse, his resolve? 

She stops, draws her chest up, her shoulders back, and raises her head. She waits patiently, steeling herself.

“I asked you here to seek your forgiveness—” he begins.

Forcing a sweet smile and bright look, she says, “There is nothing to forgive.” 

And there isn’t. There never will be. She is besotted—irrationally, recklessly, besotted with him—and her heart sputters at this realization.

Byakuya doesn’t know. He can’t. And, when she turns her attention fully to him, she is relieved that he is searching the weave of the tatami, and not her. 

“I didn’t know what my family did.” The words hang between them. Heavy. Ominous. 

She doesn’t understand. “Lord Bya—” she begins, but he swiftly cuts her off with a glance.

His gray eyes are clear, shining as slick as slate. “I swear on my life, I didn’t know.”

Where to begin? She has no idea. What does he mean by this? A line creases the space between her brows. “I don’t understand,” she whispers, voice small and breathy, and she crosses the distance between them.

Once she is in the circle of his heat, she stops, eyes wide and probing. _Please tell me_ , she thinks, trying her best to read the still blankness of his face.

“I was unaware of the part my family has played in your indenture to the Peony House,” he says, words tangled and tortured.

Her furrowed brow relaxes, and she smiles gently up at him. A heavy breath floods her clenched chest, and her body relaxes. “You mean your family’s sponsorship of me?” 

She can hardly believe he cares about such a thing.

Now, it is his turn to look confused. Hesitantly, as if he might have unwittingly stumbled across a livewire, he nods his head. 

Her smile widens, and she loosens a small chuckle. “Lord Byakuya,” she begins, keeping her voice even and light, “if not for you family’s sponsorship, I might not have had the opportunity to become a courtesan.” Carefully, she examines him, her violet eyes tracing each line of his face. “Your family didn’t sell me to the Peony House. They do not add to my debt; they only—”

“—they _profit_ from your services. They are the reason you will never satisfy your debt,” he interrupts, voice bladed, disgust crawling across his face. 

Before he can continue, Hisana reaches up and gently cups his face. “Your family’s sponsorship has been a gift, Lord Kuchiki.” She means it. Their sponsorship is the closest thing to protection that she has in this world.

His eyes squeeze shut, and she wonders if part of him wants to accept her exoneration of his family. 

Not that she blames him, if such is the case. 

If not for the Kuchiki sponsorship, she likely could not have been a courtesan. She wouldn’t have had the silks, grooming, or training for a proper debut, and she probably would have found herself languishing as a common prostitute. 

Without the Kuchiki sponsorship, she wouldn’t have . . . .

“I wouldn’t have met you, Lord Byakuya,” she murmurs, her thumb stroking the contour of his cheek.

His eyes blink open, and he watches her with that inscrutable stare of his. 

“Terrible things could have befallen me if not for your family’s charity,” she adds, voice thin and thready. 

“Did they sponsor your debut?” he asks, brows knitting together, as if he suspects it to be so and is troubled by this suspicion.

 _Of course_ , she realizes, immediately ascertaining the purpose of his question. The family or man who sponsors a courtesan’s _debut_ is entitled to be her first. Young, virginal girls are a commodity, after all. 

Her smile breaks, and she deepens her gaze. “Lord Byakuya,” she says his name pleadingly, knowing his question doesn’t seek truth so much as it seeks to torture him. 

His hands find her shoulders, and he gives her a small, commanding squeeze. “Hisana,” he says her name like a prayer, as if his reverence might provoke her to charity, “tell me. Did any of the men of my line force—”

She cuts him off with a small shake of her head. “Lord Byakuya.” Another plea. It is broken, small. And her heart aches at the sight of him, at the intensity burning in his eyes, at the concern deepening the lines of his face. 

When the silence that invades proves too stifling, she finally answers. Her eyes lock on the flame flickering in the lantern, and her heart thuds to a stop. “Your family sponsored my debut.” The answer to his question is wrapped up neatly in her response.

_Yes, they sponsored me._

_Yes, they were entitled to me._

_Yes, they took what they had claimed._

The question that comes next feels like a blow to the gut, even if she anticipates it.

“Who?”

The pain tangling in his voice strikes her, and she feels it as acutely as if it is her own. “You don’t,” she says, pinning him with a knowing stare.

“I do,” he responds before she can finish. His words are stern, forceful without the violence of a demand. 

She shakes her head. “You can’t know.”

He can’t have this particular truth. It is forbidden. She has been sworn to secrecy. A heavy price and certain retribution seal her lips.

“How can you stand to look at me, to take me into your confidence?” he asks, voice crackling with hurt. 

It is the sound of self-loathing.

She knows that sound well, too well. And she won’t let him suffer it needlessly. 

She presses closer. Her wide eyes trap his stare. Her heart is there. Beating, bloody, but true. She can’t help the words that come next. They tumble out so quickly, so gracelessly, she can’t contain them in time. 

“Because I’m falling—” she catches herself. The sound stops, words strangling in her throat. The consonants feel as sharp as blades, and the vowels feel ashen, like gunpowder. 

She has made this confession a thousand times. Naked and meaningless. It is a declaration expected—desired even—of her class. Yet, right then, staring into his face, the words chase down her throat.

She feels them too acutely, and she shouldn’t, the rebuking part of her reminds her. Confessions of love are part of the illusion. They must not become reality. 

And, yet . . . .

He draws a ragged breath. His eyes darken. She isn’t sure whether he is stunned or baleful at her weakness.

Before she has a chance to try to undo her words, he stops her lips with a fierce kiss.

It is the first kiss that he has taken for himself, and it defies her expectation. She expected hesitance and fumbling. Short stops and hard pulls.

He is nothing like that, and a private fire burns her cheeks when he brings her into his arms. They are strong, harder than she imagined. He is jagged layers of muscle that shifts and tightens against her.

His hands, too, are rough against the side of her face and neck. She hadn’t noticed before, hadn’t stopped to examine their callouses even when he amused her with his calligraphy. 

A small gasp sends him back a pace, and he searches her. His stare cloudy, but no less probing. “We don’t—”

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. She won’t have it. Her fingers hook into the slack of his robes and she reels him to her. The kiss is harder than before, and her hands move with practiced ease.

There is no one she has wanted as much as him. Even if it is wrong. Even if it is improper.

Right then, as she strips him of his armor with the experience of a woman twice her age, she no longer cares about propriety.


End file.
